


sanguis christi

by peacefrog



Category: The Exorcist (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Church Sex, Drunkenness, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 12:17:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13681527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peacefrog/pseuds/peacefrog
Summary: Marcus’ lips are stained with communion wine. It’s obscene, really, but Tomas smiles at the sight. “We shouldn’t be doing this here,” he says.





	sanguis christi

**Author's Note:**

> Set in early season one, roughly sometime between Marcus first arriving in Chicago and being excommunicated.

Marcus’ lips are stained with communion wine. It’s obscene, really, but Tomas smiles at the sight. “We shouldn’t be doing this here,” he says.

“God is everywhere,” says Marcus. “Everyone else has gone home. Relax.”

Tomas brings the bottle to his lips and downs another mouthful. It’s too sweet. It was never meant for this. “I’m certain this is sacrilege.”

“Sanguis Christi, inebria me,” says Marcus, stealing the bottle from Tomas’ hand. Then, smiling, says, “Don’t worry. I’ll take your confession.”

St. Anthony’s is quiet as a tomb after dark. He’s never been here this late, without even the click of Tara’s heels echoing through the halls. Tomas’ chasuble hanging near the door reeks of incense and it fills the room. His mind flicks briefly to the dread of what’s to come. To the reality he still can’t quite accept as real. But this isn't the time for that, he reminds himself. Not tonight. This night is for forgetting.

Marcus laughs as he sets the bottle down on the desk, the sound filling the small space that is Tomas’ office. Tomas asks, “What’s so funny?”

“You,” Marcus drawls, licking at his lips, a gesture that borders on sinful. If Tomas flushes at the sight, he blames it on the alcohol.

Tomas takes the bottle and drinks. “Why am I funny?”

“This is the naughtiest thing you’ve ever done.”

“You barely know me.”

Marcus rocks back in his chair, kicks his feet up on the desk. “Tomas Ortega,” he says, rolling the name obscenely on his tongue, “always plays by the rules.”

“I’m not playing by them now.” Tomas takes another drink, the first hints of alcoholic-haze blossoming under his skin. He gladly welcomes impending inebriation.

“Yeah, well, I’m a horrible influence. Or so I’ve been told.” Marcus laughs again, reaches for the wine. Tomas passes it to him without protest. He drinks, wipes his lips, says, “I like it here. Your little parish.”

“Did you ever want to be a parish priest?” Tomas laughs silently to himself at the thought of Marcus swinging a thurible billowing smoke, giving sermons, spewing homilies. He’s a priest, but not that kind. Marcus belongs to the earth and the dirt and the road. Marcus belongs to the desert and the wind and the sky. Marcus was created in God’s image to wander, to sojourn in strange lands until his dying days.

Marcus smiles wide, downs the last dregs of the bottle. “No time for that, love,” he says. “The world is my parish.” He giggles, letting his feet fall from the desk to the floor with a thud, setting the bottle down just a bit too hard.

“You’re drunk.”

“I am not. No one gets drunk on half a bottle.” Marcus pushes back from the desk, jumps to his feet, smiles, spreads his arms wide like wings and says, “Open another.”

Tomas can’t protest. He wants more. Needs it. Needs the reprieve of a drunken stupor. When was the last time he let himself go this way? He can’t remember. Too long. There is so little time for letting go now.

Tomas goes to his cabinet, pulls out another bottle, uncorks it. He and Marcus sit on the floor, rest their heads back against the expanse of Tomas’ desk. Raising the bottle Marcus says, “Eternal God, we ask you in the name of Your Son, Jesus Christ, to bless and sanctify this wine to the souls of all those… blah blah blah.” 

“That,” says Tomas, snatching the bottle and taking a long swig, “is definitely sacrilege.”

Marcus crosses himself and smirks. “Say your Hail Marys in the morning.”

Tomas passes the bottle back to Marcus and watches as his mouth wraps around the lip of it. He tips the bottle and drinks, makes a sound that can only be described as a giggle, passes the bottle back to Tomas. They continue on this way until the bottle is nearly empty and Tomas can say he’s well and truly on his way to drunken bliss at last. His mind tingles and his skin sings.

Their heads lolling lazily against the desk, they turn their faces to one another and laugh. Marcus is close enough for Tomas to see the blush clearly on his cheeks, the shine in his eyes. He’s just as drunk as Tomas, maybe more. Tomas’ eyes flick down to Marcus’ upturned lips. He can smell the wine there and, breathing deeply, tastes it too. Tomas doesn’t even realize he’s leaning in until his lips are ghosting over Marcus’. 

With a gasp, Tomas wrenches himself away. “Sorry,” he mumbles, turning away, gripping the bottle tightly in his hands. “Sorry.”

Marcus is stiff and still beside him for a moment, and then fingers are pressing against Tomas’ cheek. “Don’t be sorry,” says Marcus, turning Tomas’ face back to him. “Don’t be…”

Their lips slot together so easily, a coming together as natural as clasping hands. It is prayer and devotion. Cogs turning and coming to rest where they belong, tangled in each other. Marcus’ tongue licks into Tomas’ mouth tentatively, and then Tomas’ head is spinning, and the room is spinning, as if at once he is suddenly aware of the Earth and her motion. Marcus tastes deeply of wine, the body and the blood, transubstantiation bleeding into his lungs with each shared breath. It’s too much. Too much. It’s—

Tomas breaks the kiss with a sigh, aching and dizzy with sudden arousal. Breathing hotly against Marcus’ lips he says, “We shouldn’t be doing this here.”

Marcus smirks wickedly, presses a chaste kiss to the corner of Tomas’ mouth. “That’s what you said about the wine.”

Tomas sighs heavily, his eyes falling to the collar at Marcus’ throat. He reaches up and touches his own. It pulses under his hands, or maybe it’s his own blood rushing in his neck, pumping with a quickness through his veins. The pressure in his throat is enough to choke. He struggles to his feet, sets the wine on his desk. “We shouldn’t be doing this anywhere,” he huffs out. He inhales deeply, exhales. Once, twice...

Marcus stands, crowds Tomas back against the desk, hands resting gently on his thighs. He leans in and, lips pressed to Tomas’ ear, he whispers, “We’ll stop, then.”

Marcus pulls away smirking, but before he can turn away Tomas is gripping him by the front of his collar and pulling him back in, crashing their mouths together. They tumble back into the desk, clawing at each other, nearly tipping over the all-but-empty bottle of wine. Tomas comes to land firmly planted on the desk, his legs spread with Marcus settled between them. Marcus digs his fingers into the hair at Tomas’ nape as he kisses him deeply, licks into his mouth like he is seeking to devour. Tomas grips the back of Marcus’ shirt, pulling him nearer, gripping Marcus’ hips tightly with his thighs.

Tomas breaks the kiss, burying his face in the hollow of Marcus’ throat, giggling as the room tips around them. “What are we doing?”

“You think too much,” says Marcus, pulling back, and Tomas nearly topples over with the loss of him. Marcus steadies him with his hands, sliding them up Tomas’ thighs until they’re curving around the spot where Tomas’ erection tents his pants obscenely. “I’ve never done this before,” he says absently, his eyes fixed on Tomas’ arousal. He frames his hands around it in a way that should feel filthy and intrusive, but Tomas feels nothing but light.

Tomas swallows thickly, says, “You mean the kissing, or…”

Marcus falls to his knees gracelessly, grinning, pawing at Tomas for balance. He presses his face to Tomas’ erection, nuzzles into it. “This,” he says.

Tomas grasps at the short crop of Marcus’ hair, gasping and laughing. There’s a portrait of Christ on the wall right in front of him and Tomas almost— _almost_ —pushes Marcus away. But then his mouth is breathing hotly through the fabric of Tomas’ pants, and Tomas is moaning and pulling Marcus’ nearer. Tomas’ toes curl inside his shoes. He could come like this. How long has it been since he allowed himself the relief of his own hand? Months. More. He tosses his head back and shuts his eyes as Marcus begins fumbling with his belt, tugging at his pants.

Marcus laughs. “Little help, love,” he says, struggling to get Tomas’ pants down.

His heart leaping in his chest, Tomas says, “Sorry,” and grips the edge of the desk as he lifts his hips and helps Marcus peel his pants and underwear down to his knees. Exposed and trembling, leaking and ruining the front of his shirt, the first touch of Marcus’ hand to his cock sends Tomas’ hips bucking up from the desk.

“Easy now,” says Marcus, trailing his free hand soothingly down Tomas’ thigh. 

“You said you’ve never done this before.”

“I haven’t.”

“Then how can you be so...” Tomas gasps when Marcus gives his cock the laziest of strokes. “So confident?”

Marcus smirks up at him, and presses a kiss to the head of Tomas’ cock. A shudder runs through Tomas, shooting sparks through his veins, blood rushing so loud in his ears he can barely hear the filthy sounds spilling from Marcus’ throat as he wraps his lips around Tomas. For his part, Tomas is certain he’s harder than he’s ever been in his life, his arousal throbbing in time with the rhythmic drumming of his own heart. Marcus lavishes him with his tongue and Tomas forgets to breathe, forgets to think, forgets—

Tomas knows right away he isn’t going to last. It’s too much. Too much. His fingers curving around Marcus’ skull, Marcus’ inexperienced tongue and lips giving their all. The heat of him stoking flames beneath Tomas’ skin. And Tomas is praying, praying. Not to God, to something deeper, if there is such a thing. He’d never considered that there might be until this moment. Something older than time or thought or sin. He keens a wordless psalm to the heavens, a shameless song. Marcus takes him a little deeper, and Tomas begins to crumble. A pillar, anointed, dedicated to God and tumbling down, down...

It’s over before it’s even begun, and Tomas spills hotly all over Marcus’ tongue with a pleasure that borders on agony. It is agony, ripping something from him buried and screaming and alive. His blood is holy, his body the eucharist, essence taking form and becoming as one inside of the man who has come to worship between the parting of his thighs. Marcus’ name spills from his lips a benediction. And Marcus gasps as Tomas spends himself in a flood that seems never-ending, breathing deeply through his nose, taking every drop as if it were the Host. Moaning low in his throat, Marcus swallows with reverence, then lets Tomas slip from his mouth with a sigh.

Tomas’ head is light as air, tipping, turning. His skin is music, ancient hymns, Marcus’ hands those that pluck and tune him, a master of his instrument. Tomas reaches for Marcus, thinking of nothing but pleasing him, of giving in return, when he sees Marcus’ own spent cock in his hand, the mess he’s made all over the floor. He laughs, and Marcus laughs, and they struggle to their feet and use each other for balance as they tug their pants back into place. 

Tomas finds a towel and tosses it over the mess on the floor. A problem for a later hour. He rounds the desk and collapses into his chair, legs turning to water. “Dios mío,” he huffs.

Marcus falls at Tomas’ feet, as if in supplication, then rests his head in Tomas’ lap. “Ready to take that confession whenever you are,” he says.

Tomas lets a silent laugh rip through him. He runs his fingers soothingly through Marcus’ scalp. “Bendíceme, padre.”

Marcus laughs, looks up at Tomas. “On second thought,” he says. “The night is young. There’s plenty of time for penance in the morning.”

Tomas’ body thrums warmly. He smiles, says, “There’s more wine.”

Marcus’s smile lights up his face, his eyes. His chin resting on Tomas’ knee he declares, “Fantastic.”

Tomas strokes Marcus cheek with reverence, hazy with lust and alcohol. How did he ever end up here? In this room with this strange man with eyes as blue as heaven. In his office stinking of sex and wondering when the shame will come. On the brink of of terror but too busy thrumming with the promise of pleasure to care. He’ll fall to his knees tomorrow and beg forgiveness, and he’ll blush when he sees Marcus and say this can never happen again. This can never happen...

But it’s happening now, inside of him and all around, and Marcus won’t stop smiling, and Tomas couldn’t frown even if he wanted to. Shame will come. Penance will come. So, too, will forgiveness. The never-ending carousel of Catholic life. But for now, this is enough. Marcus’ laugh is filling the room, and he’s tugging at Tomas’ hands, pulling him to his feet. They’re kissing, touching each other everywhere, sweet with wine and brimming with shapeless love. 

This is enough. More than enough. This is too much. This is—

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi on [tumblr](http://crossroadscastiel.tumblr.com)!


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